


Poet Laureate

by The_Passing_Queer



Category: Night In The Woods (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Childhood, Gen, Growing Up, Jam, Parenthood, Poetry, Prequel, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Passing_Queer/pseuds/The_Passing_Queer
Summary: What led Selmers to become a poet?A three-part fic exploring Selmer's backstory, her relationship with her mother and Dennis, and eventual bond with Mae. All audiences, a sweet story about maturation and how art helps us to cope with difficult times in our lives.
Relationships: Mae Borowski & Selma Ann "Selmers" Forrester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. 1996

“What’s a poet lorret?” asked Selma, tugging at the hem of her mother’s damp raincoat. 

“A what?” Her mother turned, looking down at her daughter.

“A poet _lorret_ ,” Selma insisted. “They said it at school today. Mrs. Chaz was reading a poem to us, an’ she said it was by a poet _lorret_.”

“Poet _laureate_ ,” her mother groaned, turning her attention back to the Ham Panther’s sparsely stocked shelves. “It’s a job title.” 

“Laureate…” Selma said the word again, careful to mold each letter correctly in the mouth: “ _lor-ee-at._ ”

“It’s a fancy name for someone who writes poetry,” her mother continued. “Someone who writes a lot of poetry, a lot of popular poetry.”

“Poetry’s funny,” Selma said. She wandered away, further down the aisle, her rainboots clacking across the linoleum floor. “Sometimes it rhymes,” she called back. “Sometimes it doesn’t!”

Her mother sighed. She crossed off another item on her shopping list, and weighed the decision to stop Selma from yelling inside the store. Her daughter was young, she knew. But with each passing day, her voice grew louder, and more and more questions poured out of her. Questions which, increasingly, she was unable to answer.

“I like the rhyming ones,” Selma continued, looking up at shelves of jam jars. “I try to guess the next word, like…‘cat’ could rhyme with ‘bat!’”

“It could, yes,” her mother replied, pushing the cart along. “Do you see the strawberry preserves, Selma?” 

Usually Selma could remember where her family’s preferred grocery items were on the shelves. The cereal, with the tree on the box, was second shelf from the bottom, just a few feet past the column in the middle of the aisle. Today, however, someone must have reorganized the jam, as her father’s preferred kind––strawberry preserves, or “checkerjelly,” as Selma referred to the brand’s quilt-pattern lid––wasn’t in its usual spot, at eye-level. 

Selma glanced around the display, trying to spot the jar hiding amongst its peers in the aisle. She wondered, to herself, whether the jars were excited to leave the store and bring their contents into someone’s home. Or did the jars consider the store to be _their_ home, and Selma’s family had been uprooting the jars from their families this whole time?

The inquiry might have gone on, silently, for some time, had she not noticed a label on one of the jars: _Homemade Raspberry Jam._

Selma stared down the label, parsing the phrase over and over. _Homemade Raspberry Jam._ She measured out the phrase: two syllables, three syllables, one syllable. She whispered it, measuring the sounds as she had before.

“Homemade, raspberry...jam!” she said. The sounds called to her. Something about them got her thinking differently than she had before. 

“I like to eat homemade raspberry jam,” Selma began, her eyes glazing over with intense focus. “It’s good for a person...and…”

She squinted. There had to be a word that rhymed with _jam_. But what? She cycled through the alphabet, searching for the perfect––

“...good for a lamb!” she eventually called out. It was the perfect conclusion, in her estimation.

A shushing sound came from behind her. Turning, Selma caught her mother’s glance, with a finger to her lips. Her knuckles tightened around the handle of the shopping cart.

“ _Please_ , Selma,” she pleaded with her daughter. “Indoor voice, until we’re home.”

“Sorry,” she apologized, pressing her own finger to her lips. Her hands sunk deep into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and she returned to her poetry, already in progress.

“I like to eat homemade raspberry jam,” she repeated. “It’s good for a human and good for a lamb...I put it on toast during breakfast time...I wish they had jam that was made out of...lime!”

Selma’s entire face brightened, completing her first full poem. It was sensible, she felt, and she bowed a wordless thank-you to the jam jar that inspired it. 

“Come along, Selma,” her mother called. The cart turned at the end of the aisle, and Selma’s mother vanished around the corner. 

“Mom!” she said, running to catch up. _Clack-clack-clack_ , her boots sang out from the floor, leaving a trail of water droplets along as she ran. “Mom! I have to tell you something!”

She turned the corner, but didn’t see her mom anywhere in view. Selma took a few tentative steps into the next aisle, looking as far down the rows of groceries as she could. No sign of her mother, anywhere.

“Mom!” she called out, again. She did try not to yell outside of the home––it had been taught to her, after an early incident where she’d gotten in trouble for yelling at a Pastabilities employee, from across the dining area––but at the moment, standing alone in the Ham Panther and with no adult in sight, she could forget the past. 

Another few steps took her into the next aisle. Her least favorite, the frozen foods. She was glad for the rain outside, since it meant she was wearing her raincoat, which could protect her from the frigid chill of the aisle. A woman stood with a basket, holding a box of what looked like corn dogs––but it wasn’t her mother.

Selma walked faster now, looking down each aisle as she passed by, trying to catch a glimpse of her mother continuing to shop. With every step, her fear grew, hoping she could remember the brilliant poem she’d written once she found her mother. She ran through it in her head once again: _I like to eat homemade strawberry jam..._ no, no, it was _raspberry_ jam. Right? And her mother was looking for strawberry jam––

“Checkerjelly!” Selma shrieked, to herself. In her excitement to create the poem, she’d completely forgotten to grab the jar from the shelf. 

Turning back, she broke into a sprint back to the aisle, still repeating the poem in her mind: _I like to eat homemade raspberry jam, it’s good for humans and good for a lamb, put it on toast while you’re at breakfast, I wish they had jam that was..._ how had she rhymed “breakfast” before? There must be another word, but where? She glazed over again, rewriting as she ran, before she––

_Whack!_

_Shatter!_

“Selma Ann!”

She’d landed on the ground, her arm taking the brunt of the impact, though she didn’t sense that she’d gotten any scrapes this time. In her shock, the pieces of the scene slowly came to Selma, as the haze of the jam aisle sharpened into view: the employee, in his black apron and yellow nametag; then the jar, it’s checkerboard lid sitting atop a small pile of jelly and glass shards; and finally her mother, crouching down in front of her with eyebrows narrowed into a stern glare.

“Where did you go?” her mother asked. “I told you to follow me!”

“I was running!” Selma replied. “I couldn’t find you!” 

“Don’t walk away from me again, okay?” Her mother stood up, and addressed the employee. “I’m so sorry,” Selma heard her say. “This one’s a handful at times.”

Standing up and dusting herself off, Selma looked for the space on the jam shelves where the checkerjelly had been hiding. Casting her eyes high, towards the bright halogens in the ceiling, she finally caught sight of the whole crew of checkerjellies: strawberry, the ringleader, with the sister products blackberry and apricot flanking on either side.

A yank on the arm brought Selma face-to-face with her mother once again. 

“What were you doing, when you didn’t follow me?” she asked. Selma knew the tone, and it didn’t sound like her mother would let up soon. “Are you having trouble focusing? What?!”

“I was...I wrote a poem…” Selma’s eyes fell to the floor. She studied her rainboots, which she hoped she could keep wearing even as the summer began next month.

“A poem...” Her mother turned, walked a tight path back to their cart of groceries, and gripped the handle harder than before. “Now please follow me and don’t run off, okay?”

Selma nodded. She stuck by her mother’s leg, holding onto the side of the metal cart, as they walked together out of the aisle. As she passed the jams, she sneaked one last glance, right under her mother’s arms, at the homemade raspberry jam that inspired the poem. 

“Mom?” asked Selma.

“What is it, honey.”

“What does a poet lor-ee-at do?” 

“They write poems.”

Selma crinkled up her nose at this. “But other poets write poems,” she pressed. Looking up at her mother. “What makes someone a poet lor-ee-at?”

“I don’t know, Selma,” her mother sighed in reply. It was a Saturday, so her husband was still at work until five, which meant that Selma would need to be kept occupied until later in the evening. Already, the day had had enough drama, without the prodding and questioning that was sure to continue until her daughter drifted off to sleep that evening.

The cart turned into a new aisle. 

“Maybe a poet lor-ee-at is someone who writes a lot of poems,” Selma suggested. She ran her jam poem in her head as she spoke: _I put it on toast during breakfast time..._ “Like, they walk down the street, and they see something, and write a poem about it.” _I wish they had jam that was made of..._ “Maybe they’re just writing poems about everything, like every day they––”

“Selma, look out”!

A hand yanked Selma back, by the jacket. She stumbled backwards, the display of wine suddenly coming into focus, just a step and a half before she would have walked right into it. 

Her mother exhaled, forcefully. “Selma Ann, you need to _focus_.” She turned her daughter around to face her. “Eyes up here. Eyes!”

Selma looked up. Her mother rarely yelled at her, but she still hated the times when it happened. And she knew that this time, it was her fault. 

“When you’re in a public place, you need to keep an eye on your surroundings,” her mother growled. “If you walked into those bottles, they would have all fallen down and one of them could have hit you. Do you understand?” 

Selma did, clearly, but the words to agree couldn’t rise to her mouth.

Her mother gripped her shoulder. “Do you?” she repeated.

Selma nodded. 

“Take my hand, okay?” She reached down, as she stood back up. “We only have a few items left to get. Then we can go home.”

Taking her daughter’s hand, Selma’s mother walked on through the store. A gentle tug on her arm assured her that Selma was still following, still in sight, not running off into trouble. 

Selma had taken a newly discovered interest in the surrounding architecture of the Ham Panther, and she stepped to the side as she passed each display, not wanting to knock a tray of olives to the ground––or, worse, pasta noodles.

A minute passed, in silent walking around the store, before Selma’s mother finally spoke once again, without looking down at her daughter.

“A poet laureate is someone who’s picked by the country they live in,” she explained, as best she could. “It’s someone the country decides is a good poet. Someone who can teach other people about poetry.”

“So other people decide if someone is a poet laureate?” asked Selma, growing familiar with the term.

“That’s right?”

“Which people decide?”

“It depends on the country.”

“Who decides here?” 

“I don’t know, Selma, but we can find out later.”

Selma considered which member of the government was in charge of selecting the poet laureate. It was, she finally decided, probably the president’s favorite poet. 

“I wrote a poem,” Selma wanted to repeat. But she stayed quiet, walking with her mother down the aisles of the Ham Panther. She repeated the stanzas to herself, making sure that her later transcription, once she was home and could grab a pencil and paper from her father’s desk, would be accurate. _I like to eat...and good for a lamb...I put it on toast…_

Two weeks later, when her teacher handed Selma an assignment asking her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she wrote her answer with confidence: _I want to be the poet loreat of the United States._


	2. 2014

“But what is a poet laureate?” asked Dennis. He gripped his knee, sitting back on the edge of the bed. He tried to get comfortable, but with no support for his back, he sat up awkwardly, in his sock feet. 

“It’s a national title,” Selma explained. “The Library of Congress selects a poet every year, or every other year. And that person is in charge of promoting the art of poetry for the entire country.”

“Like...when you say ‘promote,’” Dennis asked, scratching his arm, “what does that mean? Would you be selling your own poetry to people?”

“No, it’s more of an educational sort of position,” she clarified. Her fingers instinctively bent the edges of her notebook into a curve––a nervous tick already evident in a long crease across the back of the legal pad. “You travel around to schools, colleges. Promote literacy, keep ahead of the new developments in the poetry world. Things like that.”

Dennis looked askance. “Would you need a degree for something like that?”

Frowning, Selma tried to catch Dennis’ eye contact. “It’s not something that’s, you know, happening _soon_ , Dennis.”

“I’m just trying to gauge what it means for us, honey.”

Selma put her notebook on the bedside table, and sat next to Dennis. The mattress gave under her weight, pulling their hips together even as she intended to sit a few inches from his side. She placed a tentative hand over her husband’s, feeling the rough patches of his skin under the hair. It wasn’t a gesture she had done before, and her muscles initially rejected such an unseemly maternal motion. But as she massaged, feeling Dennis’ wrist and attempting to dam up the deep sigh that she knew resided in his throat, on the cusp of coming out, Selma found herself growing more familiar with this act of comforting.

“We stick together, right?” she said, with a tone that urged him to agree. “That’s the vow I took, and I recall you took a similar one.” 

Dennis laughed––not a full throated laugh, which Selma had heard a few times before and endeared her more to him with each sputtering wheeze. This laugh was lower, not a show of humor but closer to a statement of agreement. His eyes––green, like the sea at dusk––still hung to the floor. 

Selma moved her hand up his arm, squeezing the bicep. 

\- - - - -

She’d met Dennis working at the Ham Panther, though the two hadn’t worked on the same shift. The pharmacy staff, separated from the floor workers who bustled up and down the cement aisles of the store, only interacted with their fellow employees during the all-store meetings, once a month. She and Cyd had noticed Dennis from the pharmacy counter on his first day––Cyd calling out how his arm barely squeezed into the uniform. She’d intended it as an insult towards Ham Panther itself––the new guy, being handed the wrong size uniform––but Selma didn’t ignore the muscle that stuck out from beneath the cloth.

It was on his second day that Selma and Dennis first spoke. It was a slow day, a Wednesday morning in hot, sticky August. She’d been sorting pills at the back table when the irritating _ding_ of the service bell chimed from the front desk. Putting the pills and measuring tools aside, Selma adjusted her skirt as she sauntered to the front desk.

Dennis was taller than she’d thought from a distance. _5’9?,_ she wondered as he discussed his Hycomine prescription. _5’8, maybe?_ With her own 5’3 stature, he seemed to tower over her as she looked up his order. The computer wasn’t loading today, and searches in the database took long enough that she was forced into small-talk with the customers––or fellow employees, if no one else could be found. Dennis, at this point, was both.

“New to Possum Springs?” asked Selma.

“Just came in last week,” he answered. “First day was yesterday.”

“Yes, I…” She stopped herself just short of repeating Cyd’s comment about the shirt sleeve, and her eyes fell down towards the desk. “I did...see you yesterday.”

“Ah,” came the reply. 

Selma didn’t blush. She’d seen Cyd engage in small talk with customers before, and watched with secondhand dread as her co-worker’s cheeks flushed at the slightest hint of romantic interest. But she was more resolute than that––Dennis was a co-worker, and nothing more.

“You’ve been here?” he asked. His voice was dark, like newly paved asphalt. 

“Three years, last June.”

“Right out of college?”

“I took some classes online.”

“That’s college, I guess.”

“Then I guess so, yeah.”

He scratched his beard. Selma returned to looking at the computer monitor, which still whirred in an electronic search through the database. 

“Like the town?” he said, pointing to Selma’s nametag. 

She grinned. “Maybe. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“Ah, got it,” he replied. “She’s not from there?”

“Not that I know of.” 

“Hm.”

“If you hear people calling me ‘Selmers,’ it was my nickname in high school.”

 _Why did I say that?_ she immediately asked herself. _He doesn’t care. Also, I barely know him! What the hell am I––_

Dennis laughed. It was a loud, boisterous noise, implying he didn’t care who heard him, or hadn’t considered the echo. His head bent back, and his chest heaved up and down as he let the laugh come out. Selma, watching this, withdrew into her uniform, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her lab coat, searching for an escape that didn’t exist at the front counter. 

“Selmers!” Dennis repeated. “I like it!”

Selma’s ear perked up.

“That’s a nice little nickname you’ve got. Personal. Haven’t heard it before.”

Selma thanked him, instinctively, then questioned why she did. At that point, the computer chose to be merciful, and locate Dennis’ prescription. 

“Here we go,” she sighed, clicking on the command to print. The receipt fed out of the printer, and she walked away to locate the bag on the shelves. 

As she returned, Dennis was tapping on the desk with the fake pen, attached to the credit card reader. Not in any particular rhythm, she surmised––something to do with his hands, when they weren’t shifting the heavy crates in the storage room around.

Dennis paid, Selma stapled the paper to the bag, and handed it off to him.

“Thanks, Selmers,” he replied. “Take care, now.”

“Have a good day,” she said, before adding, “You too, take care!”

He walked down the aisle and out of sight. She watched him go, blushing.

\- - - - -

“I’m not leaving you,” Selma repeated, squeezing the arm a second time. “You’d come with me. I heard Washington, D.C. is good for couples. Lots of free museums, green spaces and parks.”

“It’s not for a few years, though, you said,” Dennis repeated.

“It’s a long-term plan,” she said. “I’m starting to submit to places online. Get my name back out there. There was a great service when I was in Albion that encouraged the inmates to write about their time there, and I reached out to one of the people that ran that program…”

“Would you be writing about your time there?” asked Dennis, looking up for the first time since she finished reading. 

“It might come up,” Selma admitted. “I’m more interested in more...abstract, emotional work, like this one.” She motioned back to the notebook. “But who knows. My style could change.” 

Dennis finally released the sigh that he’d been holding back, and Selma moved her hand from his bicep to his back. She slowly rubbed against his back, trying to pry into his mind. But his vacant stare left her little to go on. 

Moments passed, in this domestic _pietà,_ before Dennis spoke up.

“Selmers...could you read it again?”

Selma stood, took her notebook in hand, and steadied herself once again. She felt her sweatshirt chafing against her neck, a sensation she hadn’t noticed in her initial rush to read the poem to Dennis. She took a final look at her husband: broad-shouldered, with mussed hair, sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and shirt. She knew it was late, but she’d needed to share the poem with someone, and knew that Dennis would oblige her with an open ear. 

She cleared her throat, and recited.

“ _I trod the path of bristling leaves,_

_Knowing not my destination_

_The wind wraps my wrists in cuffs_

_A yellow moon above, dark purple dirt below_

_And eyes watch from every shadowed bough_

_Agreeing not, yet halting not my pace_

_As I, the pilgrim, soldier forward,_

_Shoes caked in soot and_

_Soles wearing down”_

She inhaled sharply. The poem was best read in one breath, she’d determined, to better communicate the momentum of that blustery evening walk. She’d tripped over the diction of _eyes watch from every shadowed bough_ during her first read, but this time she’d taken greater pains to punch the plosives, and prevent the W’s from slurring into the S’s. 

Dennis looked much the same. His eyes had narrowed halfway through the reading, which Selma took to be analytical in nature. For a time, he said nothing, Selma, bending the notebook once again, maintained eye contact, as best she could, as Dennis considered the poem anew. 

She was nearly prepared to sit back beside him, or to walk around to her side of the bed, when he stood up, and walked to Selma. Placing his hands onto her hips, he pulled her close to him. His hot breath warmed her face as he spoke.

“I really hope you get selected, Selmers,” he said, smiling warmly and pitifully. 

Selma shrieked, and pushed her mouth into his. Her arms wrapped around his wide frame, notebook still in her right hand. All the anxiety, the fear, the second-guessing, drained away for a blissful few seconds in his embrace. As she broke from him, it began trickling back in slowly, so gradual that she wouldn’t notice the wellspring of doubt accruing until two years later, when an argument with Dennis led to her burning of the notebook. 

“Oh, Dennis,” Selma said, presently enlightened. “You really think I could be the poet laureate?”

“Hey, I’m not a poetry guy,” he said, shrugging the question off. “But I see what it does to your smile when you say it. You keep working at it, and...well, the future is unknown, right?”

Selma giggled––her mind flashed back to her early, sporadic experiments with poetry, and the joy in creating something that mattered to her without worrying about others. She’d worked diligently to study the great masters of the craft––abandoning her simple sonnets for linguistic interweavings, finding the human condition hiding in even the smallest of moments, and selecting the perfect assortment of syllables to bring that meaning out. 

“I’ve been working so hard on this one,” she repeated. “I just...I think I found something tonight.”

“I’m glad,” Dennis said. “Now, can you come to bed, please?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “Let me put this back.”

She took the notebook over to her desk, placing it with care onto a stack of papers and books. Dennis watched her as she walked to the dresser and took out her nightgown. She’d valued her privacy before Dennis, and still felt strange about being watched as she changed. But she sensed she would grow to find it second-nature one day, once she had more experience, more training, more practice in this new art she’d committed to. 

“Does the poet laureate get paid?” asked Dennis, as she climbed under the covers.

“Oh, certainly,” Selma replied. “More than you make. We’d be able to trade off; I could support you, instead of you supporting me!” 

Dennis’ eyes focused tighter on Selma more than they had all evening, and in one motion he threw his arms around his wife, as they lay in bed, and hugged her tight enough to bruise.

“My wife’s gonna be a famous poet!” he cried out.

“Dennis! Stop!” Selma laughed, grinning from ear to ear.

The two laughed together, lying in their bed. Selma already considered new revisions to the poem, and would try them out on Dennis in the morning. 

Both dreamed of forests that night.


	3. 2017

“Well! If it isn’t the poet laureate of Possum Springs!"

Selma shut the door behind her, and quickened her pace to the stairs. But her mother, coming from her room, blocked the way up to Selma’s. 

“Don’t be rude, Selma,” she intoned. “Say hello to Mr. Chazokov.” 

Selma’s eyes rolled, but she dutifully walked into the kitchen. Mr. Chazokov sat at the table, eating a sandwich of peanut butter and pickles, and grinned widely when she entered.

“Hello, Selmers!” he cheered. 

“Hello, Mr. Chazokov,” Selma replied, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. It wasn’t much.

“I didn’t see you yesterday. Were you away at work?” He took another bite of his sandwich.

“Out of work,” she said, pulling open the fridge. 

Mr. Chazokov chewed quickly, hoping to get the rest of the sandwich down before Selma moved on to another topic, but she pushed the conversation forward. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Selma Ann, don’t be rude to our guest,” came the voice from the other room.

“It’s a fair question!” she said. “I want to know when the spare rooms will be empty again.”

“Now, Selmers, it’s perfectly understandable,” Mr. Chazokov replied, taking a sip of water to wash the sandwich down. “It’s a change to the dynamic of the house, I understand. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be working most evenings, you’ll hardly notice me.”

“Well,” said Selma. She didn’t want to be rude to Mr. Chazokov––his intense obsession over astronomy was the only experience she had during high school that rivaled her own passion for poetry, and she had appreciated the proximity to someone as driven as she was. Not to mention, his son Colin was hot as hell. 

Mr. Chazokov said nothing as Selma prepared her morning coffee. It was a ritual that woke her up as much as the drink itself did––methodical measurement of the grounds, careful selection of a mug, a liberal amount of cream and sugar added to turn the dark brown roast to a blanched tan. She didn’t look back at Mr. Chazokov while she prepared the coffee, but she knew he could hear her every move around the kitchen.

Selma sat down opposite Mr. Chazokov, trying not to make eye contact. He was in her chair––she preferred to sit with a view of Maple Street, so she could watch the passersby in the morning air. But she wouldn’t ask him to move. 

“Out with friends last night?” asked Mr. Chazokov.

“I’m twenty-six.” said Selma. “I don’t go ‘out.’” 

Mr. Chazokov took another bite of his open-faced sandwich, the peanut butter sticking to his moustache. He cast a searching glance at Selma, who felt his glare but didn’t meet it.

“Out of the house, then,” he said. “Staying over somewhere else?”

Selma sighed. She’d been out, to be sure––crashing with an old high school friend, the one she’d stayed with when Dennis returned to pick up his things. The previous night had been difficult. Memories of her last few years had flooded back, overwhelming her, and making it impossible to spend the night in the family home. She couldn’t get over the associations it held, the ghosts of evenings spent there, the inescapable history of…

She’d needed to spend the evening somewhere else.

“Out of the house,” Selma confirmed. 

“We all need our space,” said Mr. Chazokov. 

Selma grumbled.

“Speaking of space,” stumbled Mr. Chazokov, “I brought my telescope with me. Might set it up on the roof, look for the constellations. Would you be interested in joining me?”

Selma wanted to say yes. Mr. Chazokov’s astronomical studies bordered on poetry, as he waxed lyrical about the different stories captured in the stars: Castys, Simone, Adina Astra, Big Snake…

Mr. Chazokov leaned over the table, finally catching Selma’s eye. “Might be a good inspiration for a poem, don’t you think?” he prodded.

“Haven’t written in a while,” Selma said, looking back out the window.

Mr. Chazokov’s eyes widened, in surprise. “Haven’t written?” he said, shocked. “Selma Forrester, not writing poetry?” 

“It’s been a rough time,” she said. “The last year has been…” 

She didn’t finish the sentence, and she didn’t need to. Mr. Chazokov, however, stood up, and walked to the sink.

“Ah, yes, I suppose the inspiration has dried up, hasn’t it?” he said, with a worried tone.

Selma didn’t answer. 

“I’m sorry for all that you’ve gone through, Selmers,” said Mr. Chazokov. 

It was strange to hear him use her high school nickname––unexpected, but warming. 

“Losing someone you care about…it can take a while before you’re able to heal.” 

Selma watched a couple walk by on the street. Arm in arm, they trod through the dying October leaves. She always loved kicking the papery leaves as she walked down the street––although it had been years since she’d done so alone. She sipped her coffee, slowly, as Mr. Chazokov continued.

“You know...I’ve heard that poetry can help you process your feelings. When you feel confused, or hurt, perhaps finding the time to write down how you feel might help you in moving on.”

“But I don’t know how I feel,” Selma said, turning to face her former teacher. “I heard the same thing right when Dennis left, that I should be writing more, processing my _feelings_ , or…”

Selma paused, struggling for the words.

“My mind is just...overcrowded with emotions, like...like a dinner party filled with everyone I’ve known, bad and good, intermingling, and...and in the low lighting I can’t make out which face is which until I’m too deep into…”

Her voice trailed off. It was bad poetry, and she knew it. She turned back to the window.

“Nevermind.”

“That’s something!” said Mr. Chazokov, sitting back at the table. “That could be a poem. A room full of strangers that you once knew?”

“I can’t make it good, though,” said Selma.

“Good?”

“It’s gotta be _good_ ,” Selma cried. The word echoed off the ceiling, pouncing back at her. “I just...I try to write something, but I can’t make it _good_ , so I...I just freeze up.” 

“What do you…” began Mr. Chazokov, but he quickly stopped himself. His voice took up a gentler tone, as he reframed his approach to helping his former student.

“What makes a poem good?” he asked.

“Honesty,” said Selma. “Unity of message and form.”

“Okay,” said Mr. Chazokov. “In that case, I think there’s honesty in your poem about a dinner party of people you love and hate. That feels genuine.”

“But I can’t get the form to work,” Selma said. “I just...when I try to put the words together, I just feel like everything is surface level. Poetry is supposed to be deep, have layers you can peel back to understand what the author is saying. That’s where the honesty is!”

Tears began to well at the edges of her eyes. She looked out, onto a street scene of trees and leaves and grey dawn, a street scene she had no better way of describing. 

“I try to write something good, and it always just feels…” She struggled for the word–– _of course she did_ , she thought to herself––before finally settling on a sputtered, near-whispered “...amateurish.” 

Mr. Chazokov considered his student’s plight. Investigated the loops she was turning in and over herself to become this vision of a poet that she felt she needed to be. The kitchen was silent, save for a few sniffles from Selma, as both of their minds worked overtime to consider all that was just said. 

The silence was finally, thankfully, broken by a boisterous laugh from Mr. Chazokov. 

Selma turned, to find their houseguest laughing, leaning against the family table to balance himself. She frowned, hurt by his joy, and slumped deeper into her chair.

“Selmers, Selmers, Selmers,” he finally said, the sound of his laugh still fresh in the kitchen air. “I think you and I have very different perspectives on what a poet _does_.”

Selma didn’t doubt this, but she remained silent.

“A poet reveals the truth about the way they feel,” explained Mr. Chazokov. “For some poets, that truth is lyrical lines, perfectly structured and brimming with evocative words that only those with the greatest amount of knowledge will be able to unpack.” 

He shifted his weight in the chair, with a smile. “But other poets...my favorite poets…”

Selma looked up.

“...they just write.”

He smiled at Selma, who sat up slightly in her chair.

“They write however it comes to them,” he continued. “And there can be beauty in that, you know. The poetry of the everyday conversation, instead of the carefully constructed sonnet with imagery brimming from every corner. Even the most dry statement of fact...well, there can be a truth in that, as well.”

Selma felt something shift in her heart. _It can’t be that easy_ , she pushed back. _I can’t just call_ everything _poetry. What’s the baseline, at that point? How do I know if it’s any good?_

“I know you want to write great poetry,” Mr. Chazokov said, still grinning. “But what would you say if I told you you’re already writing it?”

“I’d say your bar for ‘great poetry’ is too low,” grumbled Selma. 

Mr. Chazokov laughed, as he stood up. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it contains no truth.”

With that, he walked out of the kitchen.

Selma sat motionless, turning her former teacher’s words around in her mind. _I’m already writing it?_ It couldn’t be true. She’d worked for years to get her poetry to a level where she was comfortable sharing it. A perfectionist, she’d pored over every syllable, every trochee, every bend in the words on the page, all in pursuit of some truth that must lie between the lines. 

Could the truth really be in the words themselves?

\- - - - -

Selma threw on a sweatshirt––her favorite, with the alien––and sat out on the porch. It was a crisp fall day, colder than last year. The wind nipped at her nose, and she considered going back up to her room. But she couldn’t face Mr. Chazokov again until she had some response to his radical opinions on poetry. 

So she sat, people-watching not from the safety of her window, but on the exposed landing of the building. Her feet dangled, the wind giving them a gentle rocking as she contemplated her art.

Meanwhile, the streets were bustling. Harfest preparations were well underway, though the day itself wasn’t for another week. But the residents of Possum Springs liked to get a jump on things. The faces passing by were familiar to anyone who’d been trapped in the town for a few years: Mr. Salvi, with a bag of junk to donate for cash; Pastor K, on her way up to the Church; Mae Borowski, coming down the street towards––

Mae? Why was Mae back in Possum Springs?

“Selmers!” 

Mae’s voice rang out as she bounded closer. She’d been away at college––was _still_ away at college, as far as Selma knew. Possum Springs had been free of that high-pitched voice for more than a year, now. And yet, here she was, walking right up to Selma’s porch.

“Mae?” asked Selma. “What are you doing home?”

“Dropped out!” said Mae, with positivity that bothered Selma. She’d had to settle for two years taking classes online––Mae had made it to the real deal, a college with a campus and everything. 

“Wow,” was Selma’s only way of replying. 

“Yeah, I guess,” said Mae.

“So,” began Selma. “Like, you just don’t go back?”

“That’s about it.”

Selma smirked. “Weird.”

Mae looked away briefly, seemingly taking the town back in after being away. She wasn’t what Selma would consider a “friend,” strictly speaking, but the two were on mutual enough terms. Selma had been one of the only people to still speak with Mae after the incident with Andy Cullen, though she’d been cautious during their conversations. But Mae seemed peaceable enough now, and with years passed since the incident, she figured that some improvement had taken place.

“So, how’ve you been?” Mae asked, suddenly. 

“Ok,” Selma said. 

A moment’s hesitation nearly stopped her, but before she could realize why, she heard herself saying: “Me and Dennis split.” 

Mae’s eyes widened. “Oh no!” she cried out.

 _Why did I tell Mae?_ Selma asked herself. But she knew more questions would come, unless she answered them first. So she mentioned the short version of the story: the prison job, the gas station attendant. Nothing about the texts or the broken suitcase. Mae seemed satisfied enough not to ask further. 

“What a jerk,” said Mae.

“He’s a free agent,” Selma added, with a shrug. 

It was the first time she had considered the divorce in a long time––the imagery was clearer than before, hindsight having washed the mind of anxiety. She thought of Dennis, still working at Albion Penitentiary, spending day after day cramped between cement walls, with the roustabouts of the world who’d been unlucky enough to be caught.

“What’s that word they use for like that weapon you make in jail?” Selma asked Mae. “Like a knife?”

“A shiv?”

“I hope Dennis gets shivved at work,” she said. “Just to scare him. Scare him good.”

“That’d do it.”

“Scare him right in the kidney.” 

It wasn’t necessarily true, she realized. She didn’t want Dennis hurt––not physically, anyway. But it felt good to say, in a retribution-y way. And Mae, with her violent tendencies, wouldn’t mind the imagery. 

Mae grinned. “Ok, well, I gotta go.”

Selma leaned forward on the stoop. “Nice to see you!” she said, and meant it. “Stop by anytime!”

As she watched her old friend run away, up the hill, Selma felt a similar warmth in her heart. Mae wasn’t her most eloquent friend––Jackie took that honor, or perhaps Bea––but there was an honesty to the way she spoke. A truth, a vision of who she was that came through, despite the simple wording of her thoughts. A certain poetry, perhaps, similar to what Mr. Chazokov had mentioned before.

She knew she needed to write.

\- - - - -

Sitting at her desk, Selma looked down at the notebook, reading over her small verses. She didn’t think they were very good. Even looking at the poems with Mr. Chazokov’s vastly adjusted grading scale in mind, she didn’t love the imagery. It was too simple, too lacking in deeper meaning. 

She read one aloud.

_Sometimes_

_I like fruit snacks_

_Out by_

_The train tracks_

“That doesn’t... _mean_ anything!” she growled, at no one. It needed something more, in her view. Something that made it more than just a description. 

She turned a page. Another poem stared back at her––the result of a self-imposed challenge, to write a poem in less than one minute.

_Sometimes I think_

_And start to sink_

_The summer’s over_

_It’s October_

But it didn’t make sense––summer ended in September, not October. And what did the opening two lines mean? 

Selma closed the notebook, and stared out the window at the grey-blue sky. Cloudy as ever, she sensed that it would rain soon, sending the denizens of Possum Springs back indoors, and preventing her people-watching.

Down on the sidewalk below, she caught a glimpse of Mae once again, walking along with Gregg and Angus. Mae and Gregg had always been friends in school, partners in literal crime, before Mae left town and Angus entered the picture. Selma hadn’t had a person she could call her “best friend” in school––at least, not someone that she knew would feel mutually. She’d flitted from group to group, comfortable in her isolation. This was all before Dennis came along, of course. 

She wondered if she could return to that comfort in being solo. The lack of reliance on another person, a tool she’d developed living with Dennis. After all, her vapid attempts at poetry up to this point hadn’t ever dealt with another subject. She always spoke in the first person. She was the person she put first. How would she bring another person back into her poetry?

 _It might be worth a try,_ she thought. _An experiment in perspective._

Mae stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking up at the building next door. The apartments, built back when the mine company still ran the town, featured a large statue of the company’s founder. Mae stared at him, inquisitively. Then, Mae pulled a journal from her pocket, and started to write something down.

Selma looked back to her desk. The worn cover of her notebook stared back at her, tempting but dangerous to approach. Had Mae also been “prescribed” a journal by Dr. Hank?

Selma watched Mae writing, and wondered what she could be capturing about the old statue. It was a side of Mae Selma had never seen. A more contemplative side. Mandated, perhaps, by a psychiatrist, but acted on. There was something kindred, about knowing that she was no longer the town’s only writer.

She turned from the window, and back to the desk. With caution, she opened to a blank page. 

“Okay,” she whispered, to herself. “Okay, okay, okay. Write about Mae.”

What did she know about Mae? Very little. She knew that Mae had been gone at college. That she’d been having mental troubles during senior year. That those troubles were probably what brought her back to Possum Springs––although Selma couldn’t assume. 

What else?

 _She talked to me today_ , thought Selma. 

That was true. Mae had been the only member of the town, aside from her parents and Mr. Chazokov, to make time for “Selmers” while she was on the porch. It felt nice, she recalled. A momentary lift from the gloom. If Mae returned...would she say hello again? 

Selma hoped so. 

“All I need…” she began to speak. 

Picking up a pen, she wrote the words on the page.

_All I need is you_

The pen continued.

_When I feel blue_

“No, switch it around,” she muttered.

_When I feel blue_

_All I need is you_

It was a start. Selma didn’t feel the same pit in her stomach, the same dread at being the author of weak words. But where to go from there?

Selma tapped her pen on the desk. Her eyes, cast towards the ceiling, searched for the addition the poem needed.

“When I feel blue…” she repeated. “When I feel a...blueness…”

She grinned. “I need a _youness_.”

She laughed, softly. It wasn’t the right way to phrase the sentence, but it matched Mae. That’s something Mae would say.

She wrote it down.

_When I feel a blueness_

_All I need is a youness_

She laughed again, enjoying the fact that this poem would never leave the page. Something that was only for herself.

The pen continued.

_My heart is a dankness_

_But I feel a thankness_

Selma laughed louder, allowing her head to tip back, and the noise to echo against the ceiling as she enjoyed the allowance to write something bad. Something that _she_ thought was bad. Something that Mr. Chazokov would probably say was okay.

Okay?

Selma looked back at her poem. 

The words didn’t seem as stupid as she thought.

“Wait, move those around,” she said.

Picking up the pen, she began editing the poem. Adjusting the verses. Rephrasing the words. 

Revealing the truth.

\- - - - - 

“So Dr. Hank sees journals as a general cure-all,” Mae observed, the following morning. “Is it working for you?”

“Nope,” Selma answered. “Rehab and the program do, though.”

She hesitated slightly, as Mae seemed to agree with her.

She took a breath.

“And I’ve become a very good poet,” she added.

Mae’s eyes lit up, with what seemed like genuine curiosity. Selma’s appreciation for her delinquent of a neighbor grew, imperceptibly. 

A voice inside her pushed: _share it._

“Want to hear one?” she asked, holding back nerves.

“Yeah!” Mae replied.

Cracking open the notebook, Selma turned to the poem about Mae.

But she wouldn’t know that.

Selma looked up at Mae, who watched her expectantly. 

She cleared her throat.

_My heart is a dankness_

_But when I see you, I feel a thankness_

Mae smiled. “Wow, that’s really nice.”

_When I feel a blueness_

_All I need is a youness_

“That’s very romantic,” Mae applauded. 

Selma felt herself about to blush, and put the notebook down again.

“It’s about my horse,” she lied, knowing as well as Mae did that she had no horse. _Who in this town could fit a stable in their backyard?_ “We’re just friends,” Selma clarified.

Mae looked askance, but asked no further questions. 

Selma looked to the sky. High above her, she noticed Mr. Chazokov, positioned on the roof with his telescope. Had he heard her? The roof was far enough away, but voices carried on an empty street like hers. Would he mention the poem later? What would he say about it?

“Mr. Chazokov’s up on the roof again,” she told Mae. “Pretty sure he’s gonna break his damn neck.”

Mae grinned, and ran off to meet her old teacher. “Thanks, Selmers!” she tossed over her shoulder, as she left.

Selma exhaled. She’d been shaking, as she read the poem, and was thankful that her sweatshirt kept Mae from noticing. She lay back onto the worn wood of the deck, her notebook falling at her side, and smiled. 

She’d shared a poem with Dennis just before she found out about the gas station attendant in Briddle. But after that, it had been nearly two years since she’d spoken any of her work aloud. And now, Mae Borowski––of all people––had heard her recite something she wrote. It was surreal. And it was liberating. 

She watched the sky, the autumn wind sailing by. _There’s a poem in that_ , she thought, and enjoyed the hope of more work to come.

Perhaps she’d find the courage to share more complex poems in the future. To trust herself with the layered meanings and images she’d struggled with during her years with Dennis.

But for now, lying under a grey fall sky, beneath the gaze of her old teacher on the roof, Selma felt content. Not entirely fulfilled, not bursting with creativity, not bound with the passion to move mountains or tear down walls. She was simply, honestly, content.

And there was truth in that, too.


End file.
